The Taste of Toothpaste
by j-orbanski
Summary: When John woke in the middle of the night, all he wanted to do was brush his teeth and go back to sleep. His gut told him to not use his toothbrush; what had Sherlock done to it this time?  Sherlock / John


**The Taste of Toothpaste**

**Author: **Jordan

**Rating: **G

**Pairing: **Sherlock / John

**Disclaimer: **No copyright infringement is intended. I'm just borrowing the lovely characters. Thank you, ACD, The Moff, and Gatiss.

* * *

John padded to the bathroom, naked toes cold on the wooden floor. Upon arrival, he switched on the light, his weary eyes not used to the vivid light. The moonlight shone through the window, illuminating the clock on the wall which read a little after 2 in the morning. He'd fallen asleep while reading the latest medical journals, while as interesting as they were, still put him to sleep after the long day he'd had chasing Sherlock around London.

He opened the wooden door of the medicine cabinet and searched for his toothbrush and toothpaste through the dozens of caution-orange colored prescription bottles filled with pills of all colors, sizes, and shapes; small glass vials of assorted herbs he hoped were legal; and petite cases of white powders that better either belong between toes or on irritated skin. As soon as he found his blue toothbrush lying on the second shelf behind a jar of blue paste, his toothpaste behind the taps, and his mouthwash peeking out of the hamper, he knew something wasn't right.

The toothbrush looked exactly the same, but his gut told him to not put it in his mouth. He sniffed the white and blue striped bristles, which still smelled like the peppermint of his toothpaste, but he just couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom, and he certainly was not going to take a chance, not while living with Sherlock.

John sighed. That's all he wanted to do was brush his teeth and go back to sleep. He had to get up at half-ten the next morning for work at the clinic, not that he was looking forward to seeing Sarah, who had told them at the end of their last date that it would be better off if they were just colleagues.

As far as he could tell, he now had two choices: he could either just forget about his teeth and buy a new toothbrush on the way back from work tomorrow, or he could ask Sherlock what exactly he'd done to his toothbrush, Sherlock would deny everything, they'd have another 'domestic' as Mrs. Hudson called them, and he would still have to pick up a new toothbrush on the way home from work tomorrow. For some reason, John chose the latter.

His feet froze as he crept quickly and quietly down the stars, willing his leg not to lock up at that particular moment, toothbrush clutched in his left hand. He found his flat mate lying on the sofa, watching random infomercials, his eyes closing and slowly re-opening as he tried to fight off sleep for the tenth time that week. There was no longer a case; he just wanted to see how long he could healthily go without sleep.

John was tempted to just turn right back around, avoid confrontation, and quietly run back to his room, where his feet would not be slowly freezing to the wooden floor. However, he decided to take the toothbrush in his left hand and throw it straight at the non-existent heart of one sleeping Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock bolted straight up, chest heaving in and out at an alarming speed, arms flailing in all directions as his face turned to him, John's arms crossed across his chest, an unhappy look on his face.

"What the HELL was that for? I'm just lying here quietly and you throw your toothbrush at me?"

John wanted to laugh, he had never seen the detective so flustered in the entirety of their months living together.

He rolled his eyes, "You can't figure that out? I thought you were the world's only consulting detective who knew everything!"

Sherlock blinked at him a few times before starting his usual ramble of deductions.

"You're annoyed, your feet are cold, and you just woke up from sleeping uncomfortably. I'd say from reading in bed, judging by the slight smudges of ink on your fingers. But you wouldn't be reading the newspaper at this hour, and you could have just read that online, so you were probably tackling that giant stack of medical journals that you have on your desk. So, you woke up, and now you're here, and you threw your toothbrush at me to garner my attention. Ah, you think I've done something with it."

"Took you long enough, so what did you do with it? I want to find out what horrible fate I have to hide the next one from."

"I didn't do anything to your toothbrush, John."

This wasn't making anything easier. John wondered why Sherlock wouldn't just tell him so they could both get to bed, as he shifted his stance, reassuring himself that his feet hadn't frozen to the floor. He sighed as his hands fell to his sides.

"Sherlock whatever-your-middle-name-is Holmes, just tell me what you've bloody done to it! I don't care what you did, what solution you soaked it in, what poison you sprinkled on it, what explosion you cleaned up with it; just tell me so we can both get back to sleep."

Sherlock finally opened his mouth and murmured an answer that John couldn't even pretend that he heard.

"We both know that I couldn't have possibly heard that."

"I used your toothbrush," Sherlock declared while staring at the floor underneath his toes.

John's right eyebrow quirked up in surprise and he couldn't help but laugh. "That's it, you used my toothbrush? Why on earth would you do that?"

John watched as Sherlock's eyes continued to focus on the floor, refusing to even glance at him, as he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing away before he ruffled his hair.

He took a deep breath before he said in a small voice, "I wanted to taste you."

John was taken aback for a moment before he regained his composure, "But why? If you used my toothbrush, all you'd be able to taste is my toothpaste anyway, not me."

Sherlock finally looked at him for the first time in what felt like years, and those blue eyes pierced right through his very being. The detective took another deep breath, his fingers lingering in that ever-present steeple formation under his chin.

John watched as Sherlock suddenly rose from his position on the couch, grabbed the toothbrush, stepped onto and over the abused coffee table, and stood in front of John, his gaze lingering on the shorter man. John, used to being stared at and constantly deduced just stared back, for once trying to figure Sherlock out as much as he was him.

Sherlock almost forcefully shoved the toothbrush into John's chest, not breaking their eye contact. He took his toothbrush back, trying to figure it out: why would Sherlock want to taste him? It finally hit him like one of Harry's drunken smacks across the face.

"I've been so stupid, haven't I? All this time, looking but not seeing. How do you manage to deal with this small brain of mine?"

Sherlock smiled one of those genuine smiles that John knew he was only privy to.

"Sometimes, John, you surprise me. Good night."

He left, his silky dressing gown fluttering behind him like a cloud as he headed to his bedroom, leaving John standing there, toothbrush clutched once more in his left hand.

John shook his head, trying to will his brain to focus on anything other than what had just happened. It took him a moment to get his bearings back, before he quickly and quietly ascended the stairs. He couldn't even feel the cold creeping through his toes anymore, his brain still locked into overdrive.

He reached the bathroom once again, turned the cold tap on, and splashed his face with water. He sighed as he remembered the toothbrush in his hand. The toothpaste stared at him from behind the taps, before he ran the head of the toothbrush under the water quickly, wetting the bristles, grabbed his toothpaste and began to brush his teeth.

John smiled as he realised he could faintly taste something underneath the peppermint toothpaste. Something he could only describe as Sherlock.


End file.
